Selva Oscura
by mcquidditch235
Summary: Sherlock loses all he holds dear, but no one knows it when he falls down the rabbit hole of despair. They can only watch in horror as he must dig himself from the depths of sorrow and back into the light.
1. Chapter 1

_A house can be haunted by those who were never there_

 _If there was where they were missed._

 _Returning to such,_

 _Is it worse to miss the same or another or none?_

 _The haunting anyway is too much._

 _You have to leave the house to clear the air._

Tap tap tap tap tap. A pause, a tap tap tap.

"Dear John -"

Tap tap tap taps on the same key, the tap tap tap tap tap.

"Dear John. I -"

His head wrenches forward as the cab jerks to a halt amongst the mass of blinding white and yellow cars and flashing blue lights of a bustling crime scene. The scene is a dizzying stir pot of police officers scurrying left and right to secure the scene and begin the collection of evidence. He quickly closes the phone and shoves his money at the cabbie before flouncing out of the vehicle and making his way intently to the edge of the scene. There, a scowling puffball of curly, dark brown hair awaits the inevitable onslaught of verbal abuse that always accompanies the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

"It's about time you got here."

"Sorry to disappoint, I was otherwise indisposed."

"Oh, really? You seem alright to me."

"I was not ill, Sally. I simply had other engagements to attend to. Now, are you done with your incessant questioning? I don't have the time to stand around bickering with you; there are far more important matters to attend to. So, if you'll excuse me..."

With that, he swoops under the tape and strides quickly to the doors of the nondescript, abandoned factory that houses the third in a rather gruesome string of serial butcherings that has thoroughly stumped Scotland Yard's finest. He meets Lestrade at the top of the stairs and the DI leads him through a series of increasingly rank hallways to a large, open room, whose measurements he registers with little effort: a four-by-four metre room with relatively high ceilings, perhaps two or three metres.

It looks to have been the head office for the floor manager, with a large maple desk and a large window overlooking the factory floor below. It would be a completely ordinary room, with the exception that nearly every available surface, from floor to ceiling, is covered in stinking, rusty blood. In the center of the room lie the corpse, or rather, what's left. The man, as is obvious from the carelessly discarded genitals in the corner, has been dismembered far beyond recognition and scattered throughout the room. It's not unlike an extremely excited child had been playing there.

Immediately, Sherlock pounces on the the bald, bloodied head of the victim, which sits tauntingly in the center of the otherwise empty, rotting desk. It stares at the door like some horrible sentry, waiting to attack any who disturb its final resting place. Flitting about with his magnifier, he silently absorbs and categorizes the vast amount of information that could be found amongst the scattered pieces. The quiet's unnerving, so Lestrade quickly spoke up, avoiding the gruesome stare of the victim's head with his eyes.

"All the pieces are here, of his body I mean, although there's no clothing that we've found in our search."

"No, there wouldn't be. Unfortunately, your butcher is exceedingly smart. The only evidence he leaves behind is of the victim, never of his presence. If they weren't dead, you'd likely find no evidence that the killer and victim had ever been near one another. We must rely on the scene itself and what it tells us, and that's why _you_ need _me_."

With that Sherlock falls silent again, back into the depths of his brain as he examines the scene. Lestrade watches passively until Sally calls for him over the walkie.

"Sir, there's someone here looking for the freak."

Lestrade attempts to get Sherlock's attention but to no avail.

"Did they give a name, Sally?"

"No, but they're dressed in military uniforms. Called him Watson-Holmes?"

Lestrade sees Sherlock freeze, if only for a moment, before watching him straighten and walk briskly out of the room. Attempting to get Sherlock's attention, but receiving no response, Lestrade follows Sherlock back through the halls. Sherlock continues to ignore Lestrade's calls to him, and doesn't stop until they reach the door to the outside and Greg plows into his back, not expecting the sudden stop. After a moment of tense anticipation, Sherlock moves again, a blank look on his face, measured steps towards the curb where Sally waits with the two uniformed men. Greg is increasingly concerned but stands back as Sherlock resolutely approaches the officers. He watches a large black sedan pull up at the curb but ignores it in favor of the action in front of him as the first officer begins to speak.

"Sir, you are Mr. Sherlock Watson Holmes. Correct?

A quick nod from Sherlock.

"My name is Captain Bainbridge. I am extremely sorry to inform you that Captain John H. Watson-Holmes, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers of the RAMC, was killed in action on November 6th of this year. Unfortunately, his body has been determined not recoverable from the battlefield. His personal effects will be returned to you within a few weeks. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news Mr. Watson-Holmes, we are very sorry for your loss."

The officer stands expectantly, awaiting a reaction that does not come. Sherlock doesn't move so much as a centimeter, not even as the officers tip their hats and return to their car. The only evidence that he has even heard the news is he has grown even more disturbingly pale as the man has spoken.

Lestrade is just reaching out to give him a shake on the shoulder when he proceeds to swiftly drop to the ground in a heap at the base of the nearby lamppost. There are no tears, no sounds except the low shuffle of displaced air as he crumples to the concrete. Kneeling beside Sherlock quickly, Greg is just placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders when he is nudged away and none other than Mycroft Holmes kneels beside Sherlock's catatonic form and whispers in his ear before wrapping his arms around Sherlock's narrow waist and heaving him to his feet. Sherlock is still decidedly limp and alarmingly grey as Mycroft limps the dead weight towards the same black sedan that had pulled up not minutes before. Lestrade watches, dumbstruck, as the woman he knows only as Anthea (from previous meetings with the far more intimidating of the Holmes brothers) hops quickly out of the car and takes Sherlock's other side and helps Mycroft heave Sherlock into the car before hopping in beside the, for lack of a better term in Lestrade's mind, broken detective.

By this time, any and all movement on the usually bustling crime scene has ceased to a glaring halt as all watched the disturbing events unfold. Lestrade is numb, watching Mycroft shut the door after the woman and striding back over to him. He clears his throat and waits as Lestrade gets a handle on himself and is able to actually hear any words the elder Holmes has for him. Assured of Lestrade's attention, "I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you this evening Detective Inspector."

His grimace deepens.

"Unfortunately, Sherlock will be unavailable for an indeterminate amount of time. Under no circumstances are you to contact him with a case or any other work-related information until I have contacted you to inform you otherwise. I'm sorry to say I have no idea how long until that happens. You are welcome to visit and contact him for any other purpose besides. He might even need a friend in the coming weeks, as abnormal as that would normally be for him. Good day Detective Inspector."

With that he turns on his heels and quickly shuts himself into the dark car, peeling away just as quickly and silently as he had arrived and leaving behind a dumbstruck Lestrade and a frozen crime scene. Slowly the spell cast by the event lessens and work begins anew, but still Greg remains, frozen in shock from the entire ordeal. Fortunately, Sally seems to see that Lestrade needs some space to process the overload of information from seeing his friend apparently break before his very eyes, so she takes control of the scene and leaves him to his darkening thoughts.


	2. Nothing

_Dark house, by which once more I stand_

 _Here in the long unlovely street,_

 _Doors, where my heart was used to beat_

 _So quickly, waiting for a hand . . ._

To say Lestrade is scared, well, that would be the understatement of the century. He is fucking terrified. Not because he is being chased by a raging murderer or a serial killer on the loose, as he might normally be. No. Lestrade is absolutely, deathly afraid for Sherlock Holmes. The sociopathic monster, the machine, as many put it, is dead. Mentally, at least. While the man's heart still beats beneath his chest, it appears as if someone has just pulled his brain from him, leaving behind a pale, empty shell.

After the incident the day before, when the officers had shown up at his crime scene, Lestrade had grown increasingly more concerned for his friend as he pondered the crumpled, weak pile of coat that had been Sherlock Holmes, having to be physically carried into a car, for what reason Lestrade didn't have a clue. All he can do is attempt to deduce it for himself, because Sherlock isn't speaking. Lestrade had bolted from his office at NSY as quickly as possible after his shift, and run straight to 221B. The sight that had greeted him had chilled him to his bones.

Nothing could have prepared Lestrade for what he saw. The sitting room of 221B had been precisely the same as it always was, although the dust was beginning to collect a bit. The only difference from the normal was the curled up ball of consulting detective, compacted into the high-backed chair that sat opposite his usual black leather armchair. Over the course of just 24 hours, Sherlock had gone from completely normal (by Sherlockian standards) to, quite frankly, looking like shit. His hair was disheveled, his clothing rumpled in his little nest. He wore exactly what he'd been wearing when he left the crime scene the day before: his belstaff over crisp, tailored dress trousers, an impossibly smooth, plum-colored silk button up, his cerulean blue cashmere scarf, and brightly polished dress shoes. All this, along with the impossibly tall detective himself, was curled up so tightly in the chair it was as if he wished to curl so tight he would simply cease to exist. In his arms he was grasping the small Union Jack pillow that normally inhabited the chair so tight his knuckles were a blinding white and any tighter the pillow would rip into pieces. This view, besides the sudden change in seating arrangements and the impossible tension in the detective's lithe frame, was not uncommon and Lestrade would normally have been unconcerned. What truly struck terror in his heart was the expression on Sherlock's face - his eyes wide open, lips tensely held together in such a way it appeared he no longer had them, his skin an absurd grey colour. Like watered down milk, damn near translucent. His eyes, blank. Not simply unreadable; there was just nothing to read in his face. Complete emptiness.

In Sherlock, who always appeared to have three million thoughts all occurring at once inside his head, this was the scariest to see. All Lestrade could see was a hollow, empty shell of a man, and he had no idea what had caused it. He had heard what the officer from the military had told Sherlock, but had no idea who this "John" was, and besides Sherlock's immediate family, Lestrade was certain there was no one who knew the detective better than he did. Lestrade knew all of his "friends" and immediate family, at least he had thought so until yesterday, when everything had been torn to shreds.

Lestrade had now been sitting there for hours. Still, he sits, waiting for any signs of life beyond breathing from the detective, who sat in the foetal position, as blank and lost as a child. Even so, Sherlock doesn't move so much as a single muscle besides his diaphragm the entire time Lestrade waits. It is far too late now for Lestrade to be out and about with work waiting for him in the morning. He finishes the cup of tea he has helped himself to, tosses a quick goodbye to the unresponsive detective, and returns home.

His sleep is restless. All he can think about is Sherlock, and who John is. He sits in his bed for hours, pondering his evidence. Obviously, the man was in the army as a doctor or the like, but is now dead. He was a captain, so fairly high ranking. Career soldier. They shared a last name, Watson-Holmes. Brothers maybe? He had never heard about him from Mycroft, but then again he also hadn't from Sherlock, and the two were obviously close, so he must have been a brother. Lestrade, content with his deductions, manages to fall into restful slumber until morning.

The next few days go in a similar fashion. He gets up, goes to work, drives to Baker Street and watches Sherlock for a while, then sleeps. Sherlock doesn't move at all. He doesn't blink. He doesn't twitch. For all of 4 days nothing changes. Today, the 5th day since what he now only calls the "incident," he arrives only to blocked rather forcefully by a woman, only catching a glimpse of his friend before all 6 feet worth of extraordinarily tall, terribly beautiful, blonde, lithe doctor block his path, forcing him backwards towards the stairs before he finds his voice.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, ma'am. I am a friend of Sherlock's."

The doctor doesn't miss a beat.

"Could I see some identification please, detective?"

He obliges. When she seems satisfied she moves away, allowing him to enter the sitting room, where he quickly takes up his usual spot in Sherlock's armchair. He examines the detective from afar as the doctor flutters about the sitting room, tidying. If Lestrade thought he couldn't be any more scared for the detective than he had been the last few days, he was sorely mistaken.

Sherlock has migrated from the armchair to the sofa, though whether that is voluntary remains to be seen. He is still clutching the Union Jack pillow with that same broken gaze, but this time his sleeve is rolled up on his right arm where an IV has been placed and he lay stiff and straight as a board, still unmoving. The doctor fusses over him for a moment, turning him and whatnot, just like a senior in a nursing home, before flitting off to the kitchen. After a brief inquiry of "Tea?" he sits back, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. He hears but does not see the appearance of a full teacup beside him. Worried and confused, he simply sits there for awhile and observes the prostrate detective. Soon the doctor sits beside him and watches also, before Lestrade breaks the silence.

"What are you here for? He's not sick, is he?"

"No. He isn't sick. The IV is for fluids and nutrition. He hasn't slept, eaten, or spoken since I arrived, late yesterday evening. My presence is simply to ensure he doesn't harm himself and that he gets the nutrition he needs to stay alive. I am not a psychiatrist or the like; I simply care for his physical health. So, who are you to Mr. Holmes, precisely? My employer informed me that he has very few friends, yourself included, but gave me few details besides who was allowed entrance. I'm Dr. Trevelyan, by the way." She reaches across to shake his hand.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I work with Sherlock at Scotland Yard," he replies pleasantly, returning her handshake.

They speak a while about mundane things. Occasionally there is a pause in conversation as one of them looks over to Sherlock, who continues to stare blankly. Eventually, Lestrade leaves for the night.

The next few days pass uneventfully. Lestrade continues his bedside vigil with Dr. Trevelyan every evening. Often, the doctor cooks for the three of them, but Sherlock never gives the plate so much as a passing glance. Lestrade observes her vain attempts to prevent Sherlock's muscles from atrophying, but still he grows thinner and gaunter as the days pass.

After nearly a week spending each evening with the doctor and seeing no change from Sherlock, you can imagine Lestrade's absolute astonishment when he arrives to find Sherlock sitting up of his own accord. His pale, unshaven face framed by dark, greasy, overgrown curls and hunched shoulders give him the appearance of a corpse, fresh from the grave. Even so, Lestrade and the doctor are ecstatic at the development, a sign that perhaps Sherlock is getting better. Lestrade stays far later than normal, into the earliest hours of the morning, talking to Sherlock in hopes that he might receive a response. Unfortunately, there are none.


	3. Only Death

_The heart moving through a tunnel,_

 _In it darkness, darkness, darkness_

 _Like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,_

 _As though we we were drowning inside our hearts,_

 _As though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul._

The next day he is greeted by an absurdly excited young doctor. Dr. Trevalyan is positively bursting with joy when he enters and it takes a few moments to calm her down enough to explain, rather than flitting around the flat like a maniac, or Sherlock with a serial killer.

"I managed to get half a cup of tea in him!"

"Well, that's bloody fantastic! Has he said anything, moved around at all?"

With a glance to Sherlock, her eyes take on a certain gloominess as she shakes her head slowly.

"No, nothing. I was surprised he even took the tea. It didn't look like he had even heard me when I handed to him, but he took it and drank a bit, still with that look in his eyes. Wish I knew what was happening inside his head. He's just so empty, nothing like what I've read online. It's so sad."

"It's alright," he gives her a quick one armed hug,"I never know what's going on in his head! He's a total nutter, but he'll come out of it eventually. I'm sure of it. He might be crazy, but a stronger man you will never meet."

He releases her from his side and she lends a quick nod and a gentle smile in his direction before returning to the kitchen to make dinner. Lestrade takes up residence in Sherlock's chair like usual and just observes the detective. He has been changed and bathed, but his face remains unshaven and his curls are greasier than ever before. He winces just imagining how filthy Sherlock must feel before realizing that it is very likely Sherlock isn't even registering the filthiness of his head, so lost in whatever mental hell he is currently ensconced in. Lestrade watches as Sherlock's face loses some of its' tension, bit by bit as the minutes pass. Eventually his eyes flutter closed, and Sherlock falls into a light slumber on the sofa. Slowly, Lestrade lifts himself from his chair and creeps silently towards the soft, distant clattering of the kitchen where The doctor stands over the hob stirring a pot of what looks to be some kind of soup bubbles gently. The floor creaks and she turns to him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion; she prepares to speak before Greg puts a finger to his lips to quiet her. He creeps closer to her before whispering excitedly , "He's asleep!" into her ear.

The ladle in the pot drops forgotten as she turns her whole body towards him, practically vibrating with delight, a blazing grin on her face lighting up her features brighter than any sun. She quickly wraps her arms around him in a quick, ecstatic hug before releasing him and hopping up and down in delight and clapping her hands together before seeming to get a handle on herself and taking a deep breathe to calm herself. "Oh thank god!" She sighs in relief, the words barely registering in Greg's ears before she slumps into the chair nearest her at the table. Greg takes the other chair and they sit in silent for a few moments before the doctor, Grace, as Greg now knows her as, seems to remember the abandoned soup on the hob and reaches over to turn off the heat before slumping back and leaving the room in the same relieved, companionable silence as before.

Just as she completely settles into the hard backed wooden chair, they are shocked out of their relieved reverie by a deep, loud groan from the sitting room. They look to one another in shocked silence, the air now so tense it could be cut with a knife, waiting for another sound. Just as they begin to relax back into their chairs, a small whimper resounds in the air and they both shoot from the kitchen as quickly as possible to the sitting room where they are both stopped dead in their tracks by what they see. Sherlock's eyes are shut tightly, his body rigid with tense fear as he wriggles and whimpers quietly on the sofa. His grip on the Union Jack pillow has somehow gotten tighter with one hand while his other scrabbles at his chest near his heart, attempting to grab at something that isn't there and growing increasingly frantic when there is nothing there to grab except the loose fabric of his t-shirt. He groans even louder, the fear and sadness evident even through the depths of sleep and nightmare.

Dr. Trevelyan is the first to shake herself free from the shock and rushes to Sherlock's side, dropping to her knees as she slides on the rug and quickly grasps at his hands, pulling the one away from his chest and gripping it firmly. She speaks low and firm, muttering words that Greg cannot hear as he is released from the cold grip of shock and manages to drop beside her on the rug. He tunes out her words as he places a hand on Sherlock's upper arm and rubs soothingly, speaking in the same low tones as the doctor, assuring him that everything is fine, you're okay, you need to wake up now. Repeating over and over as The doctor backs away and allows Greg to take her place nearer to Sherlock's head.

A minute later Sherlock's eyes snap open. Greg sees a shocking moment of clarity in Sherlock's grey eyes before the darkness takes them again. Greg glimpses his eyes glisten with tears, tears that do not fall, just stay trapped in the creases of his eyes before his head turns away towards the back of the sofa. He backs away and sits on the ground next to the doctor. There are no words to be said, just looks of concern to be shared before Greg hides his head in his hands and allows his despair to wash over him, helpless to help his friend dig himself out of whatever bottomless hellhole he's dug himself into. The doctor, Grace as he now knows her, pats him lightly on the shoulder, her hand lingering comfortingly before wrapping around her legs as she rests her chin on her knees, staring unblinking out the window and into the dusky evening sky. There they sit, unmoving, as stars rise well into the sky and the sun whisks away below the horizon.

Sherlock wakes to blinding morning sunlight streaming in through the windows between the open curtains. He blinks confusedly in the morning haze, caching his bearings when a soft rustle causes him to whisk his head around, expecting to see Mycroft staring smugly at him. His breath catches in his throat as he looks over to see, not thinning ginger hair on pale skin accompanied by an impeccably pressed 3 piece suit, but thick, golden locks on deeply tanned skin and a soft jumper. He meets John's glittering blue eyes and finds the edges wrinkled with amusement as John, his John, smiles down at him from his usual seat in the high backed chair to the left of the crackling fire in the grate.

He can only stare as John eases himself up and kneels beside Sherlock's head, giving him a light kiss on the forehead before looking down on him with a grin and a hand through his curls.

"You were talking in your sleep again, love. You have the most perplexing dreams sometimes. You really dreamt I was dead?" He chuckles lightly. "Are you okay?" Sherlock nuzzles into the hand gently brushing his scalp with calm, warm fingers, inhaling the scent of his beloved and relaxing into his chest where his heart beats soundly with a steady thump thump thump. He feels himself slowly pulled into John's embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding tightly. "It's okay. You're alright." The soft rumble of John's resonating tenor in his chest only soothing him further as he calms from the effects of his nightmare.

Just as the last of the fear gripping him releases its' hold on his chest, a deafening crash shatters the atmosphere, and apparently the window nearest him, as John crumples to the ground in a bloody, rasping heap. His shaking fingers scrabble at the growing circle of red appearing on the front of his jumper, blood pooling and quickly absorbing into the plush, trodden rug beneath his trembling figure, as his body falls quickly into shock. They are frozen for a moment before Sherlock can grasp what is occurring and flings himself from the sofa to crouch over John, one hand on the wound in an attempt to stop the profuse bleeding, an attempt he knows will be in vain as John trembles harder beneath him. John's eyes begin to glass over and he slaps him on the face, wincing as he does so, bringing him back in to focus on his face.

"John. John! You have to stay with me. You have to look at me! You're a doctor, YOU KNOW THIS! FOCUS!" His voice breathless and chest heaving in panic. John's eyes rise to meet his, his breaths turning short and gasping. "John. Look! Here! You have to stay alive for this, for us!"

His free hand reaches up to grasp the necklace he knows is lying there, except it isn't. It's gone. The one item he knows in his heart will keep John alive is gone, leaving a cool, sweaty, bare patch of skin where it usually lies. His hands scrabble frantically searching for it as John's go glassy again, his trembling weaker. John raises a bloody hand to his cheek and turns his head to look at him, a sad smile gracing his pale, quivering lips. Sherlock's hand still searches frantically but his eyes remain trained on John's as one last whisper floats through the air between them, John's hand dropping to the ground and head lolling back, eyes open, empty, and blank. It takes a moment for Sherlock to register the scene before John's final words to him finally reach his brain as his eyes flash open to reveal soft, brown ones.

"I'm sorry."


	4. Wedding Bands

_The painful cry of a_

 _grieving man_

 _Is brought to life by his_

 _shaking hand._

 _The loneliness of a wedding_

 _band_

 _Is enough to break down_

 _any man._

The following day Sherlock drifts in and out of consciousness, never delving into the depths long before being shoved back into the light, gasping and heaving from whatever horrors lay in wait behind his closed eyelids. Lestrade sits alone. Mrs. Hudson and Grace are off at Tesco's to restock their dwindling stores. The only company at present besides him sits glassy eyed and disheveled, shoulders slumped in true and utter defeat.

Sherlock has given up on sleep, fighting with every fiber of his being to stay conscious, a fight he is losing as occasionally his head tips forward gently before jerking back up, eyes wide. He knows that all that awaits him beyond the darkness of his eyelids are crippling nightmares.

While previously Sherlock had maintained a mostly healthy look to him during this time, besides growing thinner and paler, the nightmares seem to have tipped the scales and exacerbated all signs of ailing. Now his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, deep purple bruises settled low beneath them against his pale cheeks, gaunt and stretched thin.

They sit in a mostly restful silence, broken only by the jerk of Sherlock's head fighting to stay conscious and the frequent shift of Greg's turning, searching Sherlock's face for any change, any signs that there is still life behind his cold, dead eyes, fighting back to the surface. Nothing. Lestrade braces himself to get up from his seat when movement catches his attention from the sofa. He looks over and Sherlock has a piece of dry, cold toast in his hand, one small corner ripped off and jaw moving slightly as he chews.

Nothing about him has changed, he remains thoroughly dead to the world even while chewing, making the action appear robotic and automatic rather than the momentous occasion it really is. The first time Sherlock has moved of his own accord in almost a fortnight! Lestrade freezes in empty space between sitting and standing as if one movement, one break in the air will bring reality back and Sherlock will stop. Not a risk he can take so he very slowly lowers himself back into his seat and attempts to not stare, with little success. He sets down the toast and leans back into the sofa, greasy curls hanging over the back as he drops his head onto the back, eyes gently closed and face tense.

He is still in that same position when Grace and Mrs. Hudson return, arms laden with groceries. Lestrade helps them empty all of the bags, muttering quietly about what had occurred while they were out, both women vibrating with glee at the news. When he finishes he ducks out of the kitchen with a salute and strides over to Sherlock's side, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder, then reaching for the nearby trash bin and placing it at Sherlock's feet.

"Be careful mate. You might be sick after not eating for so long. Good on you for doing it though. Keep it up." And with another quick pat on the shoulder and a reassuring nod, Lestrade leaves for home.

* * *

Another week passes in much the same fashion. The first days were horrible as Sherlock started willingly eating and drinking, if only occasionally. They were ecstatic with the progress, even if it came with a price. Sherlock was violently ill every time he ate so much as a bite for three whole days before he could manage to keep anything besides tea down. He had taken to wandering the flat aimlessly, shoulders slumped and feet dragging, the fire behind his eyes seemingly doused in a never ending flood of sorrow, his sense of purpose leached out of him by whatever tragedy had befallen him. Whenever he wasn't being violently ill of course.

* * *

The first time he'd tried to walk had been a stab in the gut to Lestrade, still becoming accustomed to caring for the normally aloof, untouchable detective. They were sitting across from one another in the cool blanket of silence when suddenly Sherlock braced himself on either arm of his chair and made to lift himself out of it. He only managed to lift himself a few inches before his legs gave out beneath him and he fell back violently. Lestrade was immediately by his side with a warm hand on his arm. Noticing the slight green tinge of Sherlock's sharp cheekbones, it wasn't difficult for Lestrade to deduce Sherlock's sudden need to stand and dislodge himself. Without a word he wrapped both hands around Sherlock's biceps and heaved him skywards, quickly wrapping one hand around his waist to steady him and support his weak, shaky form into the bathroom where he gagged and heaved for several minutes before collapsing in exhaustion.

When he managed to keep down food for a whole day, all he did was wander, and that is all he has been doing since. He wanders without purpose nor aim or lies catatonic on the sofa, the vacant dead stare steadily being replaced by an indescribable agony.

Lestrade, being a long time officer of the law, has seen many sorrowful glances and terrible breakdowns in grief during his time with the NSY; informing loved ones of deaths, putting people away with a loved one just out of reach through a few small centimeters of glass, putting away psychopaths who insisted on innocence or ignorance, or sadly, in a few heartbreaking cases that continue to haunt him to this day, the light leaving someone's eyes as they take their last breath. Even through all that, after seeing all those horrible things, he has never seen a look of such pure, incomprehensible agony scrawled upon _anybody's_ face, much less that of the great, unfeeling machine he had always assumed the Great Sherlock Holmes to be, up until that fateful collapse that had changed everything.

* * *

He is slowly gaining his strength back. He is surprisingly compliant now that he is willing to eat and drink, which in and of itself is worrying; if also extremely helpful. He eats what is put in front of him and drinks whatever he is given, and if he is aware that they contain double or triple the normal amount of nutrition in them, he doesn't show it. He allows himself to be bathed and shaved and changed. He even let them remove the IV from his hand. The only thing he will not allow is for anyone, _anyone_ , to touch his hair, flinching away violently from any attempts to brush, wash, comb, or cut it. With each passing day it grows longer, greasier, and more matted; it is now to the point where it is beyond saving and will likely need to be shaved off. It has been 3 weeks since _The Incident_ .

Lestrade arrives, exhausted and sad, just as he does every day. His body is rigid with tension, apprehension swelling up even in the painful depths of his marrow, awaiting whatever new horror will greet him today. Unfortunately, Sherlock does not disappoint as Lestrade enters to find him standing rigid at the window, back to the flat and violin pinched neatly beneath his chin, bow perched at the ready but unmoving against the strings.

The atmosphere reeks of anticipation, awaiting the slow, delicate pull of hair on string to release the frozen air from its misery, waiting in vain. Greg stares, struck dumb by the distressing sight before him. It is only when a voice suddenly whispers beside him that he is pulled from his reverie, jumping away from the sound in alarm before realizing it is only Grace beside him. Her face is wrought with confusion at his skittish reaction before she too seems to grab hold of herself and speaks again.

"He's been like that all day; even since before I came up for breakfast at 7. Not even a twitch." She looks down at the floor as a dark look takes over her features. "You should see his face, Greg. It's horrible." She looks up at him again, pleading in her eyes. She is desperate to find some way to help him, but she knows she must suffer in silence; this is a mountain Sherlock must hurdle himself, all they can do is support him as best they can and pray to whatever deity that he reaches the summit.

Greg settles in Sherlock's chair beside him and looks up to inspect him, gasping and pulling away slightly at the overwhelming intensity of Sherlock's features. His gaunt, pale cheekbones are offset by the dark purple bruises beneath his eyes, which are pulled shut tightly. The warm, dusky sunlight exacerbates the frailty of his features, shadowing his eyes further and making him appear even paler, nearly translucent, despite the golden glow it spreads on the rest of the room. His jaw is tense and pulled up tight, teeth near to grinding against one another although his lips are slightly parted. His eyebrows are furrowed with tension.

He is on the verge of a breakdown, walls bursting forth from their foundations and floods of emotion threatening to overwhelm him with their presence with every passing second. Somehow he is managing to wrestle the walls into submission within his mind, to maintain his composure, if only just. Lestrade sees this, sees every word battering around in the civil war being waged behind closed eyelids. Watches the last of Sherlock's composure fight its damndest to escape him, to desert him and leave behind just the smallest semblance of the detective's former self. It's killing him to watch the man he has always considered no less than a son slowly be eaten away by despair.

The silence is overwhelming, all-encompassing, still. Neither moves to disturb it as it grows between them, a swollen, malleable, untreatable tension. Minutes, hours, days pass in the elephantine presence of a grief that can only be felt and observed, not spoken or heard. Greg loses himself in it, wades in the shallows of the depths that are drowning Sherlock in their blackness.

 _Wait_

 _What was that? A note?_

A deep, resonant tenor note slashes through the silence like a knife, obliterating the tension only to replace it with its own unique apprehension, waiting for another to follow its pioneering brethren. Greg is taken aback at the sound, stepping out of the shallows and onto the safety of dry land as he attempts to locate the source of the sound that is lingering in the now electrified atmosphere. It is only when, seemingly minutes later, another note vibrates across the space that he realizes Sherlock has moved, just enough to play out two low, baritone notes.

They reverberate through the stillness louder than any gunshot, with all the gentle roundness of a church bell, a funeral bell. Greg sits in a shocked silence now, rather than a grieving one. The world has ground to a standstill and nothing exists except the two men. A minute passes. Two minutes. He is just relaxing back into the seat when Sherlock takes in a huge gulp of air, holding it in for several moments, before slowly blowing it back out again. It is then he begins to play.

The low notes quickly turn to high ones, passing back and forth in such a way that despite the sudden changes in pitch, it is slow and melancholic. Sherlock seems to lose himself in the masterpiece being played out from his fingertips, loosening weeks of emotion and fragility in mere seconds and releasing it into the air. He doesn't cry. The moisture does linger around his closed eyelids, it does gather around each beautiful, fanned eyelash across sleep bruised skin, but it does not fall.

It seems although the music takes the place of his own, physical, tears. Slowly drawing a pathway down his cheeks and dropping from his chin like raindrops to the soft rug beneath his feet. The violin strings scream out in anguish, the bow collapses in sorrow, the neck bows with the weight of its grief.

It is only when the last heart-rending cry echoes through the windows does Greg register the tears flowing down his face and wetting the collar of his shirt. It is yet another moment before he registers the quivering hand resting on his chair back attached to the sobbing, trembling figure of Dr. Trevelyan standing stoically behind him. Sherlock stands exactly as he was when he had finished; stock still, eyes closed, shoulders hunched and head bowed, violin still held loosely across his chest.

He stays that way for many hours, well into the night. It is only when the first golden rays of early morning sunshine begin to peek over the tops of the buildings on the horizon and creep across the floor towards his feet that he wraps it in its grey silk wrappings and sets it gently into its case.

That is the last day Dr. Trevelyan spends at Baker Street, whisked away to other duties by the ever-meddling older Holmes. Mrs. Hudson watches over Sherlock during the day and Lestrade visits during the evenings, often dining with her and Sherlock over the low coffee table.

Sherlock spends the next day curled in his armchair or wandering the flat, occasionally stopping to admire some seemingly ordinary object. Standing a moment in a calmer, more pensive silence than the one that has shadowed him for so many long weeks, turning the item over in his hands before gently replacing it.

He takes to covering the armchair across from him with his dressing gown and forbidding everyone from sitting in it. He only speaks to prevent anyone from breaking that unspoken rule on the single occasion that Greg or Mrs. Hudson accidentally make an attempt to. He sleeps that night, though restlessly.

When Greg arrives that afternoon he finds a large cardboard box on the step and a note on the door detailing that Mrs. Hudson is out for groceries and to just go on up. He grabs the box, addressed to Sherlock, and swiftly climbs the stairs to greet Sherlock.

"Sherlock! You've got a package!" He calls as he clambers up the final step to the landing. When he enters the flat carrying the box he sees Sherlock's eyes dart towards him before they widen in shock and his face turns startlingly pale. Greg is suddenly hit by a memory from many weeks before, _" His personal effects will be returned to you within a few weeks ._ " This must be _John's_ personal effects. Oh no.

Sherlock stands and takes the box from the stunned Greg, still reeling at the realization that he is holding the last remnants of the man whose death has so severely affected Sherlock these past few weeks. Sherlock sits in his chair and looks at Greg expectantly. It takes a moment for him to realize that he is expected to join Sherlock in this and makes his way over to the sofa across from Sherlock, where he perches on the edge of his seat, anxiety pulsing through every throbbing vein and capillary in his body as Sherlock slowly slices through the tape on the box. He pulls the flaps open and inhales sharply, body immediately tensing upon the sight of whatever is contained the box. After a moment he seems to gather himself, relaxing enough to let out the stale air in his chest before taking a slower, deeper breath in and slowly reaching in to begin pulling items out of the box.

The first item he pulls from the cardboard depths is a large leather case, well worn and soft from years of regular use. He holds it in his limp hands for a mere moment, barely sparing a glance at it before setting it down beside his feet gently, hand lingering just a half-second longer than necessary before returning to the box. Next his hands raise past the edge of the box holding several badges and medals, obviously military awards. Lestrade is shocked to find that John, whomever he was, was an _extremely_ decorated officer. Despite not being familiar with each and every award Sherlock is slowly lifting out of the box and setting neatly on the table, the sheer quantity of them is enough to let him in on that particular tidbit of information.

His eyes slowly grow wider and wider as the pile grows. When the pile has grown sufficiently gigantic and Sherlock pauses, he assumes that that is all of them and another item will come forth, and he is proven spectacularly wrong when one last award is brought out, and it takes his breath away. There is no mistaking the bronze cross patty dangling from smooth burgundy fabric, and he doesn't even need to see the front to know that there is a fabulous, majestic lion and the words _Pro Valore_ superimposed on the front. A Victoria Cross. _My god._

Sherlock is stroking the fabric of the medal ever-so-gently. Lestrade can only sit and watch in silence as the award gets gently added to the stack.

The next item is inconspicuous, Greg doesn't even identify what it is at first as it is lost deep in the clutches of one, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock pulls his closed fist close to his chest, closing his eyes and bowing his head, almost as if he were praying. They stay this way for a minute that passes as slowly as hours until Sherlock lifts his head again and opens his fist, revealing battered, apparently rusted dog tags.

Also on the chain is a small, gold wedding band. It isn't ornate or decorated at all, just a small thick ring of gold. Sherlock fingers the ring and fiddles with the tags for a moment, before swiftly pulling the chain over his head and tucking it beneath his t-shirt.

Next Sherlock reveals a set of folded uniforms, one set of beige camouflage and another containing a khaki jacket, trousers shirt, tie, and bright red sash, amongst other various uniform pieces. Atop the stack of uniforms is a black beret from which sprouts a short white feather peaked with blood red. He runs his hand lightly over the neatly folded regimentals, placing them on the arm of his chair, almost as if he can feel the presence of John through his uniforms. The box is nearly empty now as Sherlock rummages through the remnants, most of which is simply inconsequential items from day to day usage. Books, toiletries, a few sets of pants, all of which are hastily pulled out of the box and set aside.

He shifts the box and it becomes apparent there are only a few small items left, which Sherlock slowly pulls out, mouth slightly open in apparent shock as he moves the box from between himself and Lestrade. He bends over, elbows on his knees, trembling hands clasping a small photo frame and an envelope. He stares at the items for a moment, eyes glazed with unshed tears as he sets the photo frame on the table, right in Lestrade's line of sight.

It is an older photograph, depicting a Sherlock several years younger than the one wasting away in front of him. Apparently a much _happier_ Sherlock, because his eyes are crinkled in amusement and the smile on his face is one of such pure, unadulterated joy he gasps soundlessly at the sight of it. He's wearing a tux, one arm wrapped firmly around the waist of a short, stocky man beside him, whose sandy blonde hair vividly contrasts with the darkness of his own tux. The man, who must surely be the ever mysterious John, has an equally breathtaking smile on his face and the hand not tucked firmly into Sherlock's side is clasped gently in that of the detective.

It is then that Lestrade begins to realize all may not be as it originally seemed to him. The tearing of paper alerts him to Sherlock's movements in his chair, opening the letter and beginning to read in silence.

After several agonizing minutes of silence, Sherlock's head bows in defeat. He pulls his legs up into his armchair and clutches the letter tightly to his chest, careful to keep it from getting too mussed while holding it even tighter. His body begins to shake. Greg's first thought is that the self-proclaimed sociopath is crying, but further inspection reveals his pale face wrought with agony, but no tears come and no noise escapes him. Soundless, tearless, broken sobs wrack through his aching, trembling chest.

At a loss, Lestrade raises himself up and walks around the table to perch on the corner of Sherlock's chair, wrapping an arm lightly around Sherlocks shoulders and pulling him in just the slightest bit. He rubs his hand gently over Sherlock's upper arm, then asks the worst question he could possibly ask.

"So . . . You were close then? You and John?"

Sherlock peers up at him for just a moment before looking down again and burying his face in his hands. He takes a deep shuddering breath, unconsciously leaning towards Greg for support, and shakes his head. He looks to Greg imploringly, his eyes like shattered glass, a small glimpse of the true brokenness simmering beneath the surface of his being. He bows his head again and speaks for the first time in so many weeks, voice rough and broken from disuse and sorrow.

"He was all I had."


	5. Concussion Part 1

_I like a look of Agony,_  
 _Because I know it's true—_  
 _Men do not sham Convulsion,_  
 _Nor simulate, a Throe—_

 _The Eyes glaze once—and that is Death—_  
 _Impossible to feign_  
 _The Beads upon the Forehead_  
 _By homely Anguish strung._

The stillness is eerie, polluted only by the rattle and groan of the long dry pipes where they crawl up the dusty, cobwebbed walls and into the ceiling. The shadowy corner a nest of dark, greasy, ratted blankets, dust piled high among the crevaces. It's cramped and cold, the cool stone floor and walls absorbing all the warmth from the air. The only light comes from a single, flickering light bulb dangling from a frayed length of twine in the center of the room, leaving negligible light to drown out the darkness from the corners.

The thud of incoming footsteps is the only warning before there's a screech of a rusty handle turning and a resounding slam of metal on stone as the thick steel door impacts the concrete behind it with enough force to leave a spiderweb of fractures in the stone. Two men storm into the room. One, obviously the superior of the two, shouting in rapid Dari and gesticulating wildly. The second following slowly, cowering before his rage, shoulders hunched and head hung in shame to shield himself from the sharp words.

The superior of the two storms to the corner, still shouting at the other man, and plunges his hand into the depths of the pile of blankets. He drags out, not a blanket, as would be expected, but the limp, unconscious figure of a man. He holds the man up by his arm and gestures towards him angrily, jerking his bulky, limp body across the grimy concrete floor.

He drops the man suddenly, and quite unceremoniously, back to the floor, skull bouncing painfully on the stone where a knot immediately begins to form. He sends the subordinate away with a sharp word and dismissive wave of the hand, leaving both men alone in the room. The larger man moves to the corner of the room near the door, the one furthest from the unconscious man on the floor. He leans into the corner, crossing his arms across his chest and hooking one ankle over the other, watching the other man with a look of vague intrigue as he begins to stir.

Several long minutes pass in silence save for the occasional snuffle of breath or shift of fabric from the man as he slowly works his way to consciousness. His sun-bleached blond hair is mussed and matted with blood and the knot on his head is large and red, various stages of bruising already beginning to appear as his face twists in a pained grimace, the pain hitting him suddenly as the last vestiges of unconsciousness wash away, taking away the numbing effects they so generously provide. His eyes are screwed shut, even the dim light of the single light bulb sending waves of sharp, throbbing ache through his eyes, throughout his skull, and down his neck, stiff from the odd "sleeping" position. He turns his head from side to side to loosen the tension from his neck and shoulders, putting a hand to his head to investigate the increasingly large knot on his forehead, finding also the few scrapes and scratches on his face, his split lip, and the gaping, bloody wound on the crown of his head beneath his hair.

When he feels the wound, his body stiffens and he freezes, listening intently to his surroundings and taking in as much data about the room as possible. When all he hears are the breaths of the man in the corner he moves to push himself to a sitting position, only to find just one of his hands is free. The other is tied securely to the pipes lining the walls with thick wire rope, completely incapacitated. Slowly, after several failed attempts resulting in him dropping back to the ground breathless, he manages to one-handedly push himself up. Eyes still closed, he slides back onto the blankets and leans his back against the wall, groaning quietly as he works his sore, bruised muscles. When he settles himself, he leans his head gently against the wall behind him, finding its weight too much to carry in his stiff, weakened state. He hisses in pain as the concrete brushes over the barely scabbed trauma on his skull, causing it to weep slightly where the scab tears against the rugged stone. The blood trickles down his bare neck, leaving a shining scarlet trail behind it, a jagged path cutting through the darkly tanned skin and cutting off at the collar of his spotted green and brown camouflage fatigues.

After a moment he opens his eyes to size up his position, noting the cables wrapped securely around his wrists and the silent, statuesque figure near the door.

So. What's the plan? Torture me, beat me, hang me by my toes? he says hesitantly, searching for the words in his admittedly limited Dari arsenal. He still manages to sound firm though, confident, sarcastic, almost joking as he faces down his captor. The man barely acknowledges the words, only his eyes betray that he even hears, flickering slightly over the face of the man on the floor.

Well Captain Watson, that depends entirely on you. he drawls, If you work with us and provide us with the information we need, you will go free, unharmed.

He smiles, a sinister, cruel sort of smile, like a viper ready to strike his prey and just waiting for the right moment. Do you think you can do that, Captain? He growls, stalking forward as he slowly enunciates every word until he's practically on top of the sprawled, incapacitated captain, John, doesn't deign to respond, simply hardens his gaze and stares down the man above him with unmasked fury and hatred in his eyes, mouth pursed to keep back a snarky response that would only enrage his captor.

When no response is supplied by the stubborn soldier, the large afghani man surges forward and seizes a large handful of sun-bleached blond in his dark tanned fingers and jerks John's head up until their eyes meet. John's eyes squint closed and his mouth pulls wide in a grimace, hissing with the pain of hair ripping out and the jostling of the many wounds on his head.

When his eyes open again it is to the too-close figure of his captor's face centimeters from his own, the man's hot, stinking breath puffing out hard on his face. Can you do that, _Captain_? He growls out slowly, enunciating every word with a tightening of the fingers gripping John's hair.

John nods his head tightly against the firm grip on his hair, grimacing as the movement puts more tension on the strands. The soldier releases John's hair and shoves his head back, making his head swim again and he closes his eyes to steady himself. With a firm utterance of Good, the man stalks out of the room, slamming the heavy metal behind him with a resounding crash that echoes through the concrete. John sits in silence for a long while, head pounding. His whole body aches, a throbbing pulse throughout his entire body, pounding to the beat of his heart. He keeps his eyes shut and thinks.

 _What the fuck am I going to do? How the hell am I going to get out of here?_

He starts to breathe a little quicker, starting to panic.

 _Jesus, get a hold on yourself Watson, it's not hopeless . . . not yet anyways. What the hell happened? That's step one. Okay. I was in the humvee with James and Murray. We were driving to the town to look after the people there, make sure anybody who needed med attention got attended to. Bring supplies. Then the ground exploded. What happened next, damn it?! Oh. Oh god. James!_

He drops his head, tears squeezing out past clenched eyes as he tries valiantly to hold them back.

 _Oh, James. James is dead. He was up front when the bomb went off. I tried to crawl to him but there was too much debris in my way. Murray was breathing, at least. I saw that much. I managed to crawl up the seats and onto the side of the humvee. I crawled over James and checked on Murray. God, I'm an idiot. Didn't even bother to look for hostiles! Stupid, stupid, stupid! There were stomps on the top/side of the truck, and I turned around just as the Afghan soldier slammed the butt of his AK into my head. Damn, that hurt just thinking about it._

He reaches a hand up to rub around the wound.

 _They were pulling me out of the truck and dropped me on the ground. Ouch. One guy dragged me away by my ankles, I couldn't fight him. When they lifted me up I dropped something, what was it? Oh. Oh fuckety fucking shit. My tags. My fucking tags, covered in blood, ditched in the sand in a pile of my blood. They're going to think I'm dead. They aren't going to be looking for me._

He bangs his head back against the wall and tugs on his hair in frustration.

 _Wait. If they think I'm dead, then Sherlock is going to think I'm dead too. They'll notify him. He'll be heart broken. I never should have come back to this GOD FORSAKEN DESERT!_

He stomps his foot on the floor as angry tears fall down his face. Grief, for his Sherlock grieving him, frustration at having to find his way out of his mess, and anger at himself for ever wanting to do a second tour. Sherlock had asked him not to, begged him, but he had wanted to keep being the hero and now he's stuck in a cell in god-knows-where Afghanistan with some terrorists who want him to tell him about his base, probably so they can attack it.

His resolve shatters, the tears run freely down his cheeks, leaving fire hot streaks in their wake. He sobs, ugly heart-shattering sobs for long minutes, drowning in grief and hopelessness. Finally he regains control of himself, sniffling and wiping away snot and moisture from his tear stained face.

 _I can't lose hope. I've got to figure out how to get out of here. So, there are at least 10 of them in this group. I saw them when they took me. They won't be grouped together unless they're sleeping or hanging around, I can take down that many of them. This place has electricity, but it's spotty at best, so they probably don't have many, if any, resources and we're likely somewhere far out of the way from civilization. That also means that, because terrorists are idiots, he chuckled to himself quietly, that there won't be any security besides guards. All I have to do is get past that door, hopefully find myself a gun, and run like a bat out of Hell. Not the best plan, but I have to get back to Sherlock. I will get back to you Sherlock. I'll never leave you._

A single tear makes its agonizingly slow descent down his face, hanging on to his whiskered chin for just a moment before plummeting to the dusty ground, leaving a small puddle on its impact with the concrete.

Suddenly, the silence is broken by the faint thud of footsteps beyond the door to his cell. He only just manages to wipe his face clean when the door clicks and flies inward. The soldier from earlier steps in calmly, his face one of steely calm set with hard, ice-cold eyes. He looks John over before reaching behind him to grab a cheap metal folding chair which he tosses inelegantly into the center of the room. It lands with a high-pitched crash, teetering on two of its legs for a moment before coming to a stop upright.

The soldier flicks his hand towards the hall outside the cell, signaling to someone, then shuts the door behind him. A moment of tense silence passes between the two men, the spell only breaking when the click of the door being locked from the outside reverberates through the space.


	6. Concussion Part 2

He strides over to John, his thick, heavy combat boots beating low, steady heartbeats across the room to place his bulking features towering over John's huddled form in the corner. His eyes are cold and gleam with the sinister sort of sharpness found only in those who pay no mind to dealing out pain to any who cross them. John stares back with a fierceness and defiance he doesn't entirely feel, the exhaustion and pain from his head seeping away any true strength. He pulls out a knife, and for one quick second John thinks this is the end, much too quickly for him to find a way to escape, but then the man just grabs his wrist roughly and slices through the cables on his wrist. Then he reaches a large, tanned hand under John's arm and grips it firmly, just enough to pinch and rub the sensitive skin there. John manages to avoid wincing, but it's a near thing.

He lifts John up and drops him onto the bitterly cold chair, not even bothering to tie him down again, then backs away to the wall and leans on it casually, his head lolling languidly against the concrete. John's head is drooped to his chest, blood matted hair draping in front of his face. He's breathing heavily through his nose, keeping his mouth shut tight and swallowing back thick, viscous saliva in an effort to fight off the waves of nausea and pain from being jerked about. The soldier ignores his obvious plight and speaks.

So . . . Captain. Are you ready to talk to us? You said you'd tell us but somehow I think you weren't being entirely truthful with me. What do you think? He drawls lazily. John ignores him, just glares past him with hateful, unseeing eyes. No? Even though if you don't, your regiment will be attacked and all your men personally hunted down, shot, scalped, and left to rot in the burning desert sands? John remains resolute. You'll get one more chance before there's nothing I can do for you. I don't want to have to murder your comrades.

Nothing.

In a second his fist was hurtling towards John, who was barely able to anticipate the attack and prevent himself from flinching, despite the explosion of agony it lit in his already pounding head. Blood floods sluggishly from his nose, the punch not breaking it, but very nearly.

Anything Captain? I don't need much. Just tell me about the patrols and you can go! Is that so much to ask? He simpers sinisterly with a flutter of his short, thick eyelashes. John's only response is a tight shake of his head that sends droplets of spittle and blood crashing to the floor. He looks up through rough, greasy locks, blood clinging to his whiskered face and oozing off in globs, leaving an increasingly large puddle in his lap. He stares firmly as he spits on the soldier's boots.

* * *

Many minutes later, John is hunched over his stomach, breathless with pain and delirious. His lap is a puddle of gooey, half-congealed blood and saliva. His hair is curtained inelegantly before his face, hiding it from view. The soldier watches from his corner perch, smoking a cigarette through his smirk. John's chest heaves and stutters as he leans precariously near to the edge of his chair. He doesn't look up as the soldier approaches, crushing the half-smoked cigarette beneath his steel-clad toe. His large, dark shadow casts over John as the man passes before the light to stand beside him. He leans down to whisper in John's ear, his breath hot and stinking across John's face, making his stomach churn.

Hopefully we'll have better luck tomorrow, Captain.

He shoves John out of the chair with his boot, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap, unable to catch himself. The soldier grabs the chair and drags it behind him to the door, the metal screeching across the stone, making John wince through his daze. He is just present enough to memorize the pattern of the knock he raps on the metal door. The door swings open and the soldier stomps out quickly and the door slams shut behind him. Once again John is left alone to his thoughts, with only the click of the lock of his prison to keep him company, before it too, fades to nothing.


	7. Loathing

_"Truth," said a traveller,_

 _"Is a breath, a wind,_

 _"A shadow, a phantom;_

 _"Long have I pursued it,_

 _"But never have I touched_

 _"The hem of its garment."_

 _XXVIII ["Truth," said a traveller] By Stephen Crane_

Several days pass in much the same fashion: the soldier enters, pulls him into the chair, questions him and when John refuses to answer he beats him, then leaves him in a bloody, aching heap. Sometimes he uses his bare hand, fists and heavy combat boots digging into the flesh of John's head and abdomen. Sometimes he uses a piece of rusty metal piping, jagged edges tearing at flesh and bone but leaving few if any major lacerations.

The fourth day is a metal pipe day. John, ragged and exhausted, maintains his stoic disposition as best he can but still refuses to answer the barrage of questions aimed at him. His exhaustion overtakes him and in a moment of weakness he slumps to the ground in a heap. Still, the soldier beats him mercilessly with the unforgiving metal, raining hits down on him where he is curled in the foetal position. He cries out quietly with each lash until one well-placed hit turns his quiet cries and whimpers to agonized screams and tears. Finally the soldier's attack subsides. He stops abruptly and leaves without a word, dragging the chair behind him.

When the pain abates enough that he can think, John pulls himself up and, one agonizing pull at a time, drags himself back to his corner. When he finally settles, he's breathing heavily from exertion and pain, eyes clenched shut in a desperate attempt to redirect the shooting, burning pain that accompanies his every move. He slowly pulls up his pant leg to analyze the damage.

Already his right leg is swelling drastically and turning deep violet. He drops his head back and grips his pants leg tightly, hissing through his teeth as the pain increases with every accidental shift of his leg. It's broken, he's sure of it. He slowly pulls a blanket out from beneath him starts wrapping his leg tightly in the ratty old blanket, gritting his teeth to redirect the pain. Just as he's tying the knot in it the fabric tears and his leg drops to the ground. It only drops a few short centimeters, but still he clamps his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, letting out a high whine from low in his throat. He grabs another blanket and wraps over the first for stability and knots it tightly with a bit-back groan and pinched eyes.

Once his leg is wrapped as best he can get it, he leans his head back against the cold stone and drifts into a restless sleep. Several days pass in the same tedious routine; wake up, get interrogated, get knocked around, sleep. Surprisingly the soldier avoids his leg as a whole, which John finds odd, but he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Once or twice when he is in a particularly bad mood or John is being particularly abrasive, he will aim a well placed kick or place his heavy boot across his shin and press down until John is soundless in his agony, face stretched wide in silent, anguished screams. These days leave him breathless and exhausted, cool sweat pouring down his face mixing with long congealed blood and dust.

The days pass slowly, leaving John to wrestle with his increasingly darkening thoughts. Every day in the infinite silence, all he can think of is Sherlock, alone and grieving back in London. Even in his dreams he is plagued by his own ghost, haunting his husband back home.

Sherlock, alone, curled up in his chair, pale, gaunt, lifeless, cheeks stained by the long dry mask of tears and stoicism. Sherlock, alone, beside an empty casket, surrounded by the deafening silence of grief in a plainly decorated, brightly lit funeral home. Sherlock, alone, soaked to the bone, standing before a slim, gleaming headstone glistening in the dim light of clouded sunlight reflecting on polished stone and rainwater trickling down the sleek curves like tears.

Sherlock. Alone.

He does his best not to wallow in it, the pain of the grief he is unintentionally impressing on his husband. He tries, but when one spends all hours of the day alone with only the occasional visitor silently delivering a bowl of cold, dry rice and leathery, overcooked goat, the ever present hum and groan of the building active around him, it's difficult not to find oneself digging a deep mental deathtrap just for lack of anything better to do. Obviously when he's not being beaten to a pulp.

The days of torture and malnutrition slowly begin to eat at him, not just mentally but physically as well. He grows skinny and weak, his wounds growing infected with the constant rub and friction of dirt and grit into them. His whole body aches with it, the odd, radiating heat of infection. It takes so much effort just to stay awake, he hardly thinks of escape, losing sight of his Sherlock amidst the delirium of infection, starvation, and dehydration. Still, though, he faces down his captor in a daily battle of wills and one-sided beatings.

* * *

One day the soldier does not come alone, but is accompanied by two subordinates John doesn't recognize. He doesn't deign them with any sort of greeting, unkind or otherwise, just watches on with weary eyes. One drags in the chair, the other goes to John and drags his limp form to the center or the room. John's limbs are weary and useless. He's exhausted and so he doesn't fight as they lay him on his stomach and position the chair over him. The metal of the legs digs into his hips and the soft spot beneath his arms, groaning as the metal bends to allow his broad chest to fit between them. They secure his arms to the legs tightly, his head lolls on the floor, rocking with the forceful movement of their positioning of him. The tumultuous cacophony of pain shooting from every centimeter of him is deafening, making his eyes blur and his head swim.

He turns his head to peer at the soldier looking down on him with disdain. His head is too heavy for him to hold up so he rests it on the stone, dirt grating against his stubbled cheek. He recognizes how they have him arranged, he knows what lies in store for him, and his heart races with the thought, but he can't fight them.

Captain. I'm sure you recognize just how dangerous of a position you are in right now. Are you going to answer my questions today? Or am I going to have to once again do this the hard way? the soldier asks nonchalantly.

John, in his delirium, doesn't even recognize that a question was asked, just continues to stare at the soldier with blank, unfocussed eyes and a slack face.

So, that's how we'll be? He gestures to the man standing over John and John feels the chair legs beneath his arms lift slightly, just enough to pinch. Still, John doesn't respond. So be it then, Captain. The soldier shrugs. He berates John, question after question that John barely recognizes, although even if he wasn't ill he still wouldn't have answered. With each unanswered question the chair tilts farther back. As the pain increases, John becomes more and more aware but still doesn't respond, attempting to find an escape route before they permanently damage him. It becomes harder and harder to stifle the groans and yelps of pain as they stretch him farther and farther back.

Eventually his back is 90 degrees to his legs, he can't go much farther or _something_ will break. They pull him further and finally he yelps out Alright, alright! and they stop pulling, but they don't release him either. There is a pause, the only sound John's heavy breathing and quiet sniffling. Alright. he says, calmer. I'll tell you what you want. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and they release the pressure just enough to provide a slight reprieve but still remind him that they hold the control.

How many days has it been? Since you brought me here?

7 days. the soldier responds monotonously.

Okay. John shifts his gaze to the floor and watches it intently as he betrays his brethren and his country. In 10 days, the 24th, there will be a large weapons shipment arriving at the base from Kabul. There will be 4 armored trucks, each driven by 2 armed soldiers. They are expected to arrive at 6pm. He slumps further into himself with a shudder. There. He speaks with such venom, though whether the the loathing is for himself or his captors in uncertain.

Thank you, Captain. Was that really so hard? the soldier simpers condescendingly. With a lazy flick of his hand the man holding the chair up promptly releases it, sending John chin first into the concrete with a thump. Stars flicker in his vision and he blinks his eyes to clear them. They untie him and take their restraints and the chair with them, turning around and leaving the room soundlessly. The threat may be gone, but the tension lingers heavy and thick in the air, viscous and choking. John drags himself to his corner on weak, quivering arms, the stabbing pain in his shoulders and back causing his muscles to spasm and jolt with the effort. With a heavy sigh of relief he drops himself unceremoniously into the blankets when he reaches the nest and without thought his eyes close and leave him to his first restful slumber in days.


	8. Lies

Hello again! That was fast! I somehow managed to write this chapter in just over 2 weeks! Wow! Anyways, all of you guys have been so supportive of this story and I thank you dearly for it and hope you keep up with it. I love you guys to death. Anyways, I'm sorry to say the next chapter will probably take a little while to write what with exams and the semester change and also just the content. It's kind of a difficult chapter to write, but I'll push it out as quickly as I can because I love you and I don't want you to suffer tooooo much. Also, my 18th BIRTHDAY is coming up in a few weeks! Maybe I can get that chapter out as a birthday present to myself. Will keep you updated. Well, enough of my ramblings, enjoy!

Chapter Text

I love the free in thee, my bird,

The lure of freedom drew;

The light you fly toward, my bird,

I fly with thee unto.

-Freedom by George William Russell

Days passed in an agonizing monotony of blank walls and the barely discernible rustle of far-off movement in the building, the thud of thick-soled boots, the whisper of voices passing, the echo of distant shouts, the creaks of the likely unstable building around him giving him something to focus on, keeping him sane. He resigns himself to another day of endless solitude when the door unlocking clicks through the silence and the door opens, revealing his captor sporting a vicious grin.

Thank you again, Captain Watson, for your valuable information. I thought I'd come let you know that today is the day your assistance is put to use. Perhaps we'll bring a friend home? See you soon! He intones merrily in his deep, rasping baritone, nothing like the smooth baritone of Sherlock. With a nod of his head and a smile revealing yellowed, rotting teeth, he turns and shuts the door, locking it behind him and leaving John once again to his silence.

Hours pass in silence, the building unusually quiet, making the hair on his neck stand up with every groan of the building. He begins to fidget anxiously as the hours pass on, oblivious to his increasing distress. He'd pace if he could but if he ever wants to get out of here he has to let his leg heal.

After what seems like an eternity the building springs to life beyond his door again. He hears shouting and the thundering of raging boots on relentless stone. John winces, he knows he's in for it. He's been awaiting this day and its inevitable pain and suffering since he'd told them about the shipment, a shipment he knew very well had been rescheduled weeks ago due to manufacturing delays. The shouts grow louder as they - there were multiple voices - converge on his cell. One quick click of the lock later and the door propels open, slamming against the wall with a deafening crash that seems to surprise even the soldiers standing behind their leader, who was gasping in his rage, his chest heaving with every enraged huff as he glares at John.

The soldier stands for just a moment, practically vibrating with the intensity of his rage, before he stomps forward, grabs a fistful of hair and yanks John up, leaving his body dangling, every muscle tense and aching with pain radiating from his scalp. The soldier leans in close, so close John can feel his hot, stinking breath brushing against his cheek and the small droplets of spittle flying from his mouth as he bellows. You lied! You fucking lied! A wild goose chase, you played me for a fool! He pauses with a short, low inhale. You'll regret this. He growls, voice deep and low in his chest. Come here! He gestures to the men behind him as he drags John, stumbling, to the middle of the floor and forces him to stand.

His vision is blurred where his eyes have begun to water so he doesn't see the two men who go behind him. The soldier stares at John, jaw clenched, as they tie his wrists behind his back with thick rope while John wriggles and writhes in their grasps. He gasps and whimpers as the pain only worsens. He just barely sees the long trail of rope coming from his wrists but pays it no mind as he notices immediately that his right wrist is more loosely tied, loose enough to where it can be slipped through with minimal effort. When they believe him to be completely secured one of the tallest men takes the long tail of rope and threads it through a small ring in the ceiling and hands it to the leader.

The soldier stands by and dismisses his subordinates, who ignorantly leave the door open in their haste to leave their seething leader. The soldier moves to stand behind John, twisting the hair still held in his grip and, with a swift kick to the back of his right knee, sends him careening to the floor with a pained yelp. He kneels on the hard floor, pain shooting through his legs and throbbing in the broken one. He breathes heavily through his nose as he waits for the soldier to speak.

I'll make you pay for this. A complete waste of resources and time. A waste, just. like. you. He snarls. There is silence and John waits patiently as the pain in his knees subsides. Suddenly he feels the rope on his wrists twitch. Just once. Then, again. The rope starts to pull on his arms, pulling them up, up, up towards the ceiling. He quickly scrambles to stand and he turns to face his captor.

Do it. He whispers venomously. Get it done. I know what you're going to do, no need to be suspenseful if your prisoner knows what to expect. With a venomous smile the soldier begins to pull on the rope slowly. John watches unfazed as the man almost gleefully pulls his arms up. He feels the strain slowly take over the muscles of his arms and shoulders. It grows painful, slowly but surely, as tendons and muscles are stretched to their limits. Just as the pain reaches a level where he might not be able to fully maintain his composure the soldier stops and stares for a moment, taking in the sight with gleeful, sadistic eyes. With a final once over he renews his grip on the rope and pulls with all of his might.

John's right arm slips free with the force of the pull but his left arm is yanked completely up. He ignores the burning agony of muscle and tendons tearing, the bone displacing from its socket; instead he launches himself at the nonplussed soldier with a shout. His left arm is useless, still limp in its socket and dangling loosely from the slackened rope the soldier holds limply in his hand as John rockets forward and kicks him solidly in the gut. It's over in a flash, so quickly John barely takes in the encounter. The next thing he knows the soldier is on the ground in a heap, blood oozing sluggishly from a wound in the back of his head and trickling down the wall. John pauses to catch his breath, slowing his breathing and taking deep breaths. He turns and unties his arm from the ropes and it drops limply to his side. It's just beginning twinge and ache as his adrenaline ebbs. He's able to put it back in place and make a sling with his blankets to match his ragged cast, but it will hurt and he has to be quick, it won't be long before somebody comes looking for their leader.

He sits down on the ground and carefully links his hands together over his bent knee. He leans back and with a few rolls of his shoulders he feels the joint slide back into place with a low pop and a groan. It's already beginning to swell and bruise as he limps over to the corner and, slowly and awkwardly, wraps it in a makeshift sling with his good hand. He shuffles over to the unconscious soldier and pats him down. There isn't much to find in the pockets, a few wrappers and a half-smoked cigarette, crumpled and bent from its time in the pocket. After a moment John finds what he needs on the holster hidden beneath the man's jacket, wrapped around his waist; a loaded Berretta and a combat knife, long, serrated blade, worn in handle, blood trapped in the crease where blade meets grip. He takes both, considers it, then clips the gun and its clip to his trousers and holds the knife before him.

It's fortunate he's almost entirely ambidextrous, because his left is his dominant and he's in no position to use that arm. After one quick glance over the room that has been his home for 3 weeks, he turns and limps quickly out of the room.

The hall beyond the door is similar to the inside, dusty, grimy, dark, and cool. Almost immediately he comes to a crossing, one way or another. He remembers getting a glimpse of the other soldiers as they had hastily departed the room. They had gone left, which means the exit is likely that same way, but it also means he is very likely to encounter somebody, but it is a risk he has to take if he wants to get out of here. So, he goes left.

The halls are deserted but he can hear the faint clattering and whispers of activity echoing from all around him, no clear way to tell which direction they come from. He walks for a long time down the damp, echoing corridor. He meets no one. He comes across a door and opens it slowly, startling as it creaks and whines loudly. Only a closet.

After several minutes of limping slowly down the corridor he meets a set of concrete stairs going up. The noise is a bit louder now as he reaches the opening, but not much as the door is shut and the movement is coming from far past the door. He draws himself up the steps one agonizing step at a time, knife held firmly in his right hand. He stumbles once or twice and has to catch himself with his left arm, but he manages to avoid calling out as he gets closer and closer to the thin, rotting, tannish door at the top of the stairs.

When he reaches the top he bundles up close to the door and puts his ear to the itchy, splintering wood and listens. He can hear the ever present hum of people talking loudly from far away but nothing else, so he peers through the dim crack between the door and its frame, peeking around slowly, breath funneling loudly through the gap. All he can see are the dim silhouettes of what appear to be cabinets and bookshelves. Some kind of book keeping room? He waits and neither hears nor sees anyone so he slowly works open the door, which creaks and shuffles with age and wear. He winces with the noise and freezes, but no one comes running and the hum of voices doesn't even waver.

He creeps out and lets his eyes adjust to the darkness in comparison to the dim lighting he's just been exposed to. When he can see better he looks around again and sees that he has stumbled upon a supplies room, cupboards and cabinets and shelves with a menagerie of rifles and handguns and knives and hand grenades, as well as some dry food and body armour. He pockets what food he can and grabs his blood stained body armour from the table and dons it. He takes in the stock of weapons and eyes a grenade. He contemplates for a moment before pocketing the explosive. He sees a map as well, marking where he is and also, fortunately enough, where his base is in comparison. He folds it and pockets it.

He scans the room to find the only door besides the one he came through, creeps up to it, and presses his ear to the wood. He doesn't hear anything beyond the door so he carefully pulls it open, thankfully silent, and sticks his head out. When there is nothing to be seen he slides past the door and begins the long, hobbling trek down the hall. He's about halfway down when he sees a turn off just ahead. He peeks around the corner and sees a door with what was once a glass window and is now just a gaping hole. He's about to move on when he hears voices from beyond the door. He steps towards the door and ducks beneath the gap to listen.

⎯⎯⎯⎯ got a call from base, they found something. Apparently there is a very large gap in their patrols. We can use it to our advantage.

We'll need to make a plan, obviously, but the boss will be pleased. Speaking of, is he back from downstairs?

No, not yet, probably taking some time to let off some steam. He was furious that that soldier lied, can't say I'm surprised though. As far as getting at that base, probably gonna do it when the next shipment comes in. Informant told us we have about 5 days until then, gives us just enough time to prep. We can't wait until the next shipment because it's not for 2 months and we need this base out of the way.

True, true. We'll tell the boss later, I guess. So, what happened when you guys got to where the shipment was supposed to be?

John shuffles silently from the door and around the corner, stopping to take a deep breath as he processes the revelation.

They're going to attack the base. I don't know how but they've got a way in and enough makeshift explosives to kill hundreds of men. Dear God, I've got to get back to base, warn them before it's too late. God I just want to get HOME!

He takes another deep breath to gather his resolve and then continues down the hallway towards the growing cacophony of people gathering. He walks past the door, which leads to an impromptu cafeteria, the din crescendoing at the doors. Dozens of enemy soldiers gathered around a scattered, mismatched collection of rotting wooden tables and moth eaten sofas, eating and fooling around, wrestling good-naturedly and playing an assortment of card games, all of them oblivious to the escapee observing them. John continues on past the door and rounds the next corner, looking down the next hallway to where his freedom lies past one small, plywood door.

He begins moving towards the exit but pauses when he hears the whisper of a door opening behind him. He turns and comes eye to eye with a soldier exiting the dining room he'd just passed. Both of them freeze in shock, staring at one another with wide eyes. They stand at an impasse for a moment, the clatter from the room wavering around them, until the soldier seems to shake himself from his reverie.

Come! Quickly! The soldier! He's free, escaping!

John remains frozen a second longer as yelling and shuffling ensues from the dining room. The first man is coming out of the door when John comes back to himself and turns to hobble run down the seemingly endless hallway towards freedom. He hears the thunder of footsteps growing nearer, gaining on him. He risks a glance behind him and sees the first man gaining, close enough to grab him almost, but the other men haven't even rounded the corner, still far off. He turns and before the man can stop or guard himself he's impaled on John's knife. John hardly pauses, just rips the knife out with a squelch and keeps on running. He sees the others round the corner. They barely spare a passing glance for their fallen brother, just speed up as they see John hobbling, almost to the exit. He sees them gaining, far faster than he being uninjured and well fed. They come closer and closer as he flings himself through the door into the blinding flash of spotlights.

He stops to get his bearings, listening to the footsteps growing closer from behind him, as well as a few scattered new ones to either side. He realizes his only chance, the grenade. He quickly pockets his knife and begins to run into the darkness on the fringes of the bright lamps, pulling out the grenade, yanking out the pin, and releasing the safety pin. After 2 quick seconds he tosses the grenade behind him into the open doorway he's just vacated. He listens as he flees to the yelps and scurried footsteps as men encounter the explosive. He keeps running as the blast goes off behind him, rocking him a bit before the displaced air hits him. The sound follows, a rushing blast like a train speeding past.

Fire blazes behind him as he runs further and further into the darkness, blessedly unpursued with the crackle of flames and the haunting cacophony of anguished screams his only companion as he leaves his prison behind.


	9. Precisely

Hey there dears! I'm sorry to make you wait so long between chapters, but I've hopefully been providing some great entertainment in the meantime. I just want to remind you guys that I love you and I am so grateful for you reading my stories. Happy Reading! Also, this chapter is a continuation of the chapter from Sherlock's POV a while back, you might want to go back and reread that chapter, chapter 4, if you need to refresh your memory.

 _You look at me with sad green eyes,_

 _I'm overcome with feeling-_

 _Such deep emotion they disguise,_

 _Yet send my senses reeling;_

 _They speak to me of loneliness_

 _And feelings unexpressed,_

 _Of hopes and dreams unrealized_

 _And love gone uncaressed;_

 _-Sad Green Eyes by Linda Ori_

"He was all I had."

"Oh." Greg averts his eyes, unable to observe Sherlock's unadulterated grieving in all its potency as he looks at Greg, seemingly begging for release from the sorrow he is enduring.

"John was my husband, on his second tour in Afghanistan with the Royal Army Medical Corp. He left just before you and I met, was due to be home in a few months. For good this time." Sherlock's voice is raspy from disuse. He pauses a moment to finger the glimmering, golden ring dangling from a chain around his neck that Greg has never noticed. "We met just after I got out of uni. He was preparing to register for the army, but then we met and he delayed his registering. I was in the nadir of my addiction, but he didn't know that at first. He didn't mind my abrasiveness, that I could deduce his whole life from seemingly nothing; he was amazed; I couldn't believe it! He didn't tell me to piss off; quite the opposite, in fact. It was several weeks before he discovered my addiction and by that time we had grown quite close. He walked in on me shooting up in my bedroom in my flat. He was cross, to say the least. He flew into quite a rage and insisted I dispose of my entire stash immediately or he'd leave for the army and never come back. I couldn't risk it, so I flushed the lot. He lived with me for the next two months, first tending me through the withdrawal, then helping engage me in other activities, keeping my mind off of the drugs until the temptation was so slim it was no longer a problem. If not for him, I'd likely have died of an overdose in less than two months time." Sherlock's voice grows stronger, more solid as he speaks, but it still is hesitant, tinged by grief. "We were married - well entered into a civil partnership since marriage was not yet a legal option - just after I graduated. Not long after, he enlisted and has been with the service ever since. Two 4-year tours, he's been injured in action multiple times and his bravery on one of those occasions earned him the Victoria Cross. These past seven and a half years have been hell, but I-" He pauses, his voice breaking as he realizes his mistake, "- I almost had him home. I was so close." He bows his head, a sign of defeat from an already shattered man. Greg leans forward and lays a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder but remains silent. They sit a moment in the solemn silence, dust motes floating around them in the waning, golden light of the afternoon streaming in. Greg stands and pats Sherlock on the shoulder, waiting for Sherlock to look up at him,

"Will you be alright?" Sherlock seems to look through him rather than at him and his eyes grow glassy with unshed tears.

"Fine." He croaks out, almost inaudibly.

"Alright. I'll see you tomorrow if I can, but I don't know how work will be."

Sherlock only nods his head slightly in response before curling up in his chair with the letter cradled gently to his chest. Greg quietly leaves the scene and makes his way out onto Baker Street where a sleek black sedan idles at the kerb. It doesn't take a genius to know who it is and Greg plops into the backseat with a sigh.

"Hello Mycroft." Greg gives the prim man across from him a tight, tired smile which is returned in kind.

"Detective Inspector - " Greg interrupts,

"Greg, please."

"Greg. I just wanted to offer my many thanks for visiting Sherlock these last few weeks. I know it has been somewhat of a hardship for you but I do believe your presence has been beneficial to his recovery."

"It hasn't been a problem, Mycroft, and you know it. He's my friend. I just wish I'd known what he'd been going through all these years. I can't imagine how hard it's been for him, especially now that John is gone for good. They never really had a chance to truly be together did they? Drugs, and then the army. He was so close."

"Yes," Mycroft says, eyes down and tight around the edges, voice deep and somber, "He was."

* * *

Late the next morning Sherlock's mobile rings. He lets it ring for a minute, almost until it goes to voicemail, before he can gather the strength to answer it. "Holmes." He says curtly into the mobile.

"Sherlock, I know things have been rough recently, but you've been doing better and I think you need to get out of the house. I have a case, are you interested?"

There's silence on the end of the line and Greg is just beginning to think Sherlock has hung up on him when he hears a shaky inhale. "Yes. Shall I meet you at the yard or are you at the scene?"

Greg breathes a sigh of relief and a smile overtakes his face. "We're at the scene. I'll text you the address. See you soon Sherlock."

Sherlock pauses, breathes out, then sighs out a low "Thank you, Greg," before hanging up.

* * *

45 minutes later Sherlock's cab is pulling up outside one of the numerous identical terraced houses in Pelham Court. The place is crawling with officers and already Sherlock is weary from the effort as he slowly clambers out of the cab, pays the cabbie, and ambles toward the crime scene tape where Donovan is guarding the perimeter of the scene. She has her mouth open, obviously prepared to spit out any number of her wealth of scathing insults, but she seems to see something in his face as he approaches and shuts her mouth with an audible click. She watches, confusion etched across every one of her features, as Sherlock slowly approaches, and she simply holds up the tape for him to pass when he reaches her, neither one making eye contact with the other and both completely silent. Sherlock acknowledges his thanks with a slight nod in her direction as he passes and makes his way in to find Lestrade.

When he does finally find Lestrade he greets him with a solemn nod and moves quickly into the scene, losing himself in it, spitting off deductions left and right. He becomes unresponsive, entirely lost in the case, but there is a certain dullness in his tone, a greyness about his features, a hesitation and apathy to his deductions that has never been there before. Beyond his deductions he hardly speaks, although he makes a valiant attempt at revamping the facade of the flamboyant, uncaring detective he'd been color is drained from him, his face gaunt, his clothes hanging off of his far too skinny frame, his eyes a bleached out colorless grey contrasted from the striking blue-green-grey they were when he was at his finest.

At one point Anderson comes into the room and gets halfway through a complaint about Sherlock being there when Lestrade hushes him with a look and a terse nod at Sherlock, imploring the man to look closer. Anderson leans forward and squints his eyes, observing the detective as he silently inspects the corpse. A look of surprise flits over his features as he seems to catch on, seeing that something is off, and shuts his mouth with a barely audible clack of teeth.

"Oh stop your gaping and get on with it already." Sherlock mumbles from the floor where he hovers over the dead man's well polished, blood spotted black dress shoes. There's a lot less bite to the retort than would usually be expected of him, as if it was habit rather than conscious insult, and Anderson's face pulls into a confused sort of grimace as he hesitatingly walks back the way he came, his eyes asking the question "What was that?" that Lestrade only answers with a slight shake of his head.

The officers see very little of Sherlock for the next few days as he seemingly pours all of his attention into the case, hardly resurfacing to eat or drink, and usually only when Lestrade pesters him for several hours. The case is solved almost entirely from the confines of an unused interview room at NSY, which is odd for Sherlock, but not completely out of the ordinary, so nobody questions it. It's almost as if he solves it to get out of his own head, to retrain his focus.

When the case ends Sherlock quietly goes from the interview room to Lestrade's office, quickly fills out his paperwork (much to the shock of the onlooking yarders) and strides slowly and swiftly toward the lift; his powerful stride and arrogant coat swish glaringly absent, his shoulders hunched slightly. Lestrade follows behind him, stopping him before he reaches the lift. Sherlock stops and looks at him with tired eyes, his exhaustion finally showing through his usually impenetrable mask. Lestrade says something to him, low so no one around can hear, and gives a gentle squeeze to his shoulder before letting him go and watching as the detective steps into the lift, doors closing slowly behind him. Lestrade stands there for a moment, staring at the shining silver doors, frowning slightly.

* * *

Mycroft sits with his parents at their estate in Surrey. His mother and father sit huddled close together on one side of the table, he sits alone opposite them. All 3 sit nursing rapidly cooling cups of tea. A moment passes in silence before Mycroft speaks. "Sherlock is doing better, Mummy. The doctor has been sent off and he has begun taking cases again. He has entrusted me to see to the funeral arrangements." His mother nods in response, a small tear dropping from her eye. Her husband reaches over and places his hand on her arm, comforting her.

"I can't believe John is gone. He loved John so much, and now he's gone. I don't know how he's surviving it."

"He's healing, at least. Now, I know that there will not be a true burial for John, since unfortunately his body has not been located; nevertheless, I would like to have a memorial placed for him at the Ventham-Holmes burial plot at Windsor."

"Oh. Mycroft, that's a family plot." His father responded, looking away slightly and leaning into his wife.

"Precisely." Mycroft replied brusquely.

And that was that.


	10. Shepherd's Green

__I cautious, scanned my little life-__

 _ _I winnowed what would fade__

 _ _From what would last till Heads like mine__

 _ _Should be a-dreaming laid.__

 _ _I put the latter in a Barn-__

 _ _The former, blew away.__

 _ _I went one winter morning__

 _ _And lo-my priceless Hay__

 _ _Was not upon the "Scaffold"-__

 _ _Was not upon the "Beam"-__

 _ _And from a thriving Farmer-__

 _ _A Cynic, I became.__

 _ _Whether a Thief did it-__

 _ _Whether it was the wind-__

 _ _Whether Deity's guiltless-__

 _ _My business is, to find!__

 _ _So I begin to ransack!__

 _ _How is it Hearts, with Thee?__

 _ _Art thou within the little Barn__

 _ _Love provided Thee?__

 _ _Emily Dickinson__

Lestrade calls a few more times over the next week about various cases, but the Pelham Court case took more out of him than he cares to admit and he spends most of the next week asleep on the sofa. He doesn't sleep in his bed. He can't sleep in it, because even though he has no memory of John in that room with him, that he has never even seen this flat, or this bedroom, or the kind landlady who's become more of a second mother to him than he should probably admit considering his actual mother is alive and kicking. That all he's ever seen were the few pictures from the real estate listing and the ones Sherlock sent him after getting all of their stuff moved in and unpacked.

Even though they haven't shared a single breath in the same place since John's last leave 11 months ago, when they finally decided they could afford to move into a better area and Sherlock should move closer to The Yard and center city London, the bed still smells of John and the solid, polished headboard is infused with memories of soft midnights shared cuddling close just because, of sweet tumbles that turned into wrestling matches that turned into long, drawn out bouts of love making, of nights held close through the tears when John had a nightmare or when they were finally having to say goodbye after a few short weeks of never leaving one another's sights. He can't bear to face these memories. He's already taunted by the ones that follow him everywhere he goes, the now bittersweet memories of the wedding engraved with the words __Always and Forever__ inside their rings around Sherlock's neck. The constant burning of the sand scratched steel around his neck, still flaked with bits of red he couldn't get off no matter how long and hard he'd sat and scrubbed at the crevices.

And so he sleeps on the sofa, curled up under the coarse olive green of the army blanket John had brought home once and forgotten to take back with him when he'd left. They'd laughed when John had video chatted him the first time after that leave, and the video popped up with, not Sherlock's face as John had expected, but a figure cloaked in roughened green wool with a few ruffled curls poking out of the front where his head was. Sherlock had chuckled and smiled that wide, wrinkly smile that reached all the way into his forehead, and John had giggled, hunched over his keyboard and hiding his mouth with his hands to muffle the sound.

This memory hurt less, because John had been far away when it had happened, it made the ache of the impassable distance of death seem a little less present, because keeping John close in his memories made the empty place at his side that much more unbearable because it would never be filled again.

He does eat though, he can manage that much, although it is almost always at the prompting of Mrs. Hudson. Still, he eats, which is more than he could say for himself if he didn't have a second mother there to remind him. He eats for John, who he knows wouldn't appreciate it if he wasted away on John's behalf. He eats for Mrs. Hudson, because otherwise she'd pester him until he shouted and then she'd cry and he'd feel guilty, because he does love her, even if he doesn't show it. He eats for Lestrade and for Mycroft, who would force feed him if he didn't eat, which is the last thing he wants.

And so he eats, and he sleeps, and he showers in the hottest water he can manage to wash away the aches and pains of the long, lonely days, and a week after the Pelham Court case, he gets a call, not from Lestrade, but from Dimmock. It's not often he gets a call from Dimmock, usually only when the man is really stumped or when he's trying to move a case along quickly, so he answers because now he just needs to get out of the house for a bit.

"Holmes."

"Sherlock, 'ello. Was wondering if you could help me out for a tick. I've got a case I'd like to clear up pretty quick, but I haven't got a lot of leads, none to be exact. Will you come?"

"Yes. Where's the scene?"

"Shepherd's Bush Green and Richmond Way. Can't miss us."

"I'll be there in 15 minutes."

And he hangs up the phone with a sharp tap to the screen and stuffs it into his trouser pocket.

He arrives at the scene to find Dimmock waiting on the edge of the crime scene tape expectantly, hands fidgeting with an oddly out of place nervous tremor. Dimmock, however stupid, is rarely so caught out by his nerves. Must be related to the case. Sherlock strides up to him, curiosity temporarily dampening his grief to a distant simmer and allowing him to almost completely plaster on his usual mask of confident indifference.

"What are the details?" He asks, ducking under the yellow tape and following behind Dimmock towards the corner of Richmond Way, where a multitude of brick homes are stitched together into a quilt of semi-suburban tranquility.

"A couple down the road a few houses were out salting their drive in preparation for the ice when they heard a single gunshot from just up the way. They called the police to report it and this is what we found when they directed us to where the shot came from." As he says this, Dimmock leads him around the corner and stops, gesturing vaguely towards the body on the ground.

 _ _Thud.__

 _ _Thud.__

 _ _Thud.__

Sherlock's heart pounds in his ears, jumping into his throat, making him nauseous to the point where he almost begins to gag and choke, but he's too shocked to move to do so. His breath hitches in his chest. His feet stop him so suddenly that the officer he'd vaguely noticed was trailing behind him slams into his back. In any other situation he would have been cross and proceeded to tear them to shreds with his deductions, but the sight that greets him from the cold, grey pavement stops him dead.

The first thing that hits him is the uniform: Army, RAMC, well worn but well cared for, just like John's. The second thing that hits him is the hair poking out from beneath the beret: bleached white blond by the scorching sun of the deserts of the middle east, curling ever so slightly at his nape, just like John's. The third thing that hits him is the blood, one small circle on his exposed back, the rest still pooling in curdled puddles around the loose bits of rock and gravel on the ground, oozing out from beneath his chest where a bullet tore through and burst it all open. Just like John's.

Not to say that that's actually how John died, but Sherlock doesn't know that, he can't know that, because nobody quite knows what killed Captain John H Watson-Holmes, VC, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers of the RAMC, but here lies a man who is similar in so many ways that Sherlock's brain just . . . makes the leap. This is John, and that realization hits him with a pain worse than any bullet, because there's nothing you can do to staunch it, there isn't a painkiller in the world that could make this pain hurt any less, and it's hitting him faster than a jet plane, so he turns right around and strides off the scene, listening to the confused, slightly angry pleas of DI Dimmock as they echo around the empty street, chasing him up the road as he waves for the nearest cab.

When the cab stops he throws himself into it without any of the usual grace or decorum, just whips out his address through a throat that's gone tight with combatting a surge of unwelcome tears. He only lasts a moment before the flood breaks through the dam and he curls into himself, bends around the knife in his gut to try to relieve the agony of it.

When the cab stops he pulls out a bill and hands it over without a glance, then stumbles his way inside. He makes it halfway up the stairs before another wave of grief hits him and he staggers under its weight, dropping to the landing with a heavy thud and a groan. He tightens himself into a ball, a true foetal position, and he weeps shamelessly. Tears soak the carpet beneath his cheeks and the fabric scratches at the barely there stubble of 2 days without shaving. He's dimly aware that he's gasping out John's name between agonized groans that reverberate through the quiet house.

Mrs. Hudson suddenly appears at the stairs where his feet hang over the edge of the landing. Her face betrays the heartbreak that sits in her chest as she gently tugs him up and leads him to the sofa, covering him up with the army blanket and sitting down beside him. She doesn't say anything, she just lays a soothingly gentle hand on his shoulder and lets one tear fall down her cheek as she watches over him. He doesn't even notice when his eyes close and the blessed numbness of sleep takes him.


End file.
